


Don't Close the Door (Keep Breathing)

by HalcyonStars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Claustrophobia, Claustrophobic Castiel, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Dean Winchester, Seven Minutes In Heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalcyonStars/pseuds/HalcyonStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting shoved in a closet with your four year crush doesn't sound like an awful thing. In fact, most people would consider themselves lucky - a one in twelve chance, and the stars have chosen to align for them. It's all well and good in theory:<br/>7 minutes, alone, intimate,  just them.</p><p>Castiel only has one problem... Small spaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Close the Door (Keep Breathing)

They say childhood shapes a person, the impressionable life moulded by a million little events, each a hand in what they will grow to be.

It’s rather true.  He, after all, knows it well.

When Castiel was three, his big brother Gabriel told him that if he wore a cape, he would be able to fly. So, like any trusting child, he puffed his chest and spread his arms, cape blowing like a red ribbon in the wind. He looked to the birds cutting through the skies like a winged spear, and leaped from the roof of their garage.  

Three hours later, he had a fresh Superman cast on his broken arm.  And so his naïve mind learnt that humans could not fly, and not everything his brother said was true.

When he was four, his brother took his favourite toy away from him, a plush bumble bee that had wings with a pearl sheen. Castiel cried and fought and his brother, his hurt in tears as they ran down his face. Only a year his elder but so much stronger, Castiel chased Gabriel around the house in vain, until their quarrel seeped outside the walls. Gabriel threw his toy into the swimming pool, somewhere he knew Castiel couldn’t reach it. The boy got to weak knees at the water’s edge, an invisible barrier halting his rescue.

Castiel’s tiny arms stretched to reach it, needing his favourite toy back, feeling lonely and lost without its tangible comfort.

He thought if only he could concentrate hard enough, his beloved plush comfort would return to him, and so his hands grabbed at air, a desperate plea for what couldn’t be reached.

His mother was always telling him not to go to the pool by himself. That is was dangerous, especially for a little boy like himself, that he could so easily be washed beneath still waves, swallowed by its silent lure. One step wrong, and so much bad could come of it. 

He never believed her, until he felt the cold grab him and drag him down. He had his bee, and yet they were both sinking to the depths, and he couldn’t save either of them.

He was so small and light, and yet he couldn’t float, his fear was too heavy.

He struggled for what felt like hours until he felt strong hands grab him, his little body rising until he broke the surface. He felt the air hit his skin, cool and fresh and open. His vision was hazy still, but he could make out ambiguously coloured blurs of shape, rather than blue everywhere. In his father’s arms, drawn outside by the splashing and screams, his hair was plastered to his forehead, arms clutching his toy in a death grip, tears and snot streaming down his face.

He cuddled into his father’s chest, hearing broken sorry after sorry as his dad berated himself and hugged him tight.  

He looked at the blurred blue sky, the blurred green palms swaying in the wind, the blurred body of his brother standing at the edge of the pool. He blinked the water from his eyes, each flutter of an eyelid wiping tear from his sight. His vision sharpened. He looked at his brother again.

Gabriel stood by the side of the pool with fear and guilt on his face, wanting to help but being powerless to do so.

His brother and himself were never the best swimmers. What good would two dead children do?

He didn’t hold anything against his brother, young and stupid and only a year older than him. He doubts Gabriel’s intention was to harm as much as it was annoy, he was a child after all. The incident was forgiven, but not forgotten.

What he means, is he doesn’t hate his brother per se, he just doesn’t exactly _trust_ him.  

Yet when his brother suggested they attend a party thrown by the illusive Bela Talbot, conniving yet seductive, with promises of its sure-fire fun, he believed him.

For some incomprehensible reason, he listened.

That’s the tricky thing about family, you’re inclined to believe them, no matter how much they screw you over. Maybe they have matured with age, maybe they have changed. It was hard to discern truth from lies, especially with someone as equivocal as Gabriel.  

So alas, that is how he finds himself at what could only be described as a mansion, four stories of brick and render on the outside, ornate marble and polished oak on the inside.

He looks up to the crystals dancing on the chandelier, so clean he can see his reflection in them. He cranes his head and winks, and the crystals wink back. Intricate loops of gold twirl amongst quartzes, flashing pink and purple and yellow in the strobing lights birthed by partying teens. It’s quite strange, he thinks, the scene he is in. All around him is this picturesque, elegant abode, candelabrum and stone, grand piano a luring baroness in the corner… and alcohol and vomit on the floor.

Quite the disparity, one that insults the timeless beauty of this house.

He sidesteps passed out teens with a grimace, making sure they are breathing and rolling them out of their own bile. He wipes his clean hands on the leg of his jeans, just in case.

Trying to find his way is like trying to navigate a maze, each hallway diverging into dualistic paths, each stair way parting into two. This house is never-ending. 

Music pounds in his ears, he can feel the echo wrack his body and rock his bones. The bass opens up and swallows him whole, until it is all he can understand, all he can think about.

It’s hard to do much else with the incessant ear-piercing clamour.  

The kaleidoscope of spiralling lights don’t do much to help either.

Away from the noise, he decides, would be best. He follows the promise of quite, each step closer is one taken with relief. He follows the floor until wood becomes carpet, the soft wool swallowing the bedlam.

It isn’t much quieter, but it’s a small improvement. He sighs, and he can actually hear it.

“Cassie!”

Or not.

He opens his eyes, and scoffs. “Gabriel.”

“You don’t sound happy to see me.”

Gabriel is devious, a sly fox incarnate. Mischief fills him up and leaks from his every orifice. It’s a trait only amplified by booze and parties, and Castiel has learnt to keep his distance from him in such settings.

“I wonder why.”

In the living room, nine teens sit in a circle, huddled around an empty green bottle.

How original.

Several of them look tussled up, one of which is his brother, whom winks at girl sitting opposite him. She adjusts her bright red top and tight skirt, using the back of her fingers to brush a stray piece of hair off her face.

She looks like she could eat Gabriel alive.

He turns to leave, but is ushered into the circle by saccharine pleas for him join, along with the alcohol-driven tenderness – and persistent arms of several classmates whose names elude him.  

He forgoes his plans to find a friend, perhaps Rachel or Balthazar, and reluctantly takes his place in the circle instead.  

He recognises a couple of people, Jo Harvelle from his English class, tough but bubbly at once. Bela is there as well, pawing all over Dean Winchester, who’s giving her next to no attention. If Castiel is being totally honest, Dean looks a little freaked out. Next to her, Lisa Braeden looks like she’s trying not to rip Bela’s hair out.

It’s quite a common fact that those two have been fawning over him for a while, everyone at school knows it. Castiel isn’t one to listen to rumours created by bored adolescents who have nothing better to do than spread cruel lies about their peers, but he does have eyes, very observant ones at that, and he believes what he sees.

Those two could be brutal.

Not that he totally blames them. That would be rather hypocritical of him, considering he harbours a small crush on Dean. Small being synonymous with huge, in this case.

His crush is just something that has grown over years of being in the same physics class, close quarters but never meeting, an exchange of a pen here, help with a question there. It’s mostly the pen though, Dean has an incredibly shocking track record of losing his stationary. Sometimes they’ll sit next to each other and talk and laugh, until the bitter scolds of Mr Crowley draw their attention back to class. Sometimes Cas thinks that they’re becoming friends, but then the lunch bell rings and they will part ways. Dean will leave him to sit with his own group, and Castiel will go and sit with his. Occasionally Balthazar will harmless chat him up, a by-product of being a chronic flirt and constantly horny teen, or he’ll sit in companionable silence with Rachel, or Meg will come over, teasing him for “making goo-goo eyes at Ken doll.”  

Sometimes, he sees Dean making eyes back.

And then he remembers that he’s being ridiculous, hopeful, and he will playfully hit Meg on the back of the head and ruffle her hair. She will grumble at him without venom, and he will glue his gaze to his soggy fries and refuse to look up.

But now, Meg isn’t here, so he takes a moment to look without her mocking jeers.

Dean looks at him them, green eyes meeting blue, winks and smiles that stupid captivating smile of his.

Castiel flushes and looks away.

He wishes he had fries to distract him, but fortunately Charlie and Gilda help him out anyway. They walk out of the closet, laughing and smiling and clothes twisted. They have their hands all over each other, wandering and playful to match their giggling. 

Wolf whistles and cat calls fill the room as the two girls take their place in the circle, hand in hand.

“Dean, sweetie,” Bela drawls out, imitating drunkenness through her obvious sobriety. Castiel rolls his eyes at the poorly veiled attempt, and wonders if she realises her transparency. “It’s _your_ turn.” She says.

Dean clears his throat uncomfortably, leaning forward and placing his hand on the bottle. He spins.

It’s not like one might think, their high school crush spins the bottle, fingers crossed and praying that the bottle lands on them, the lucky stars aligning for them.

No, Castiel _begs_ for it not to land on him. For it to keep going, _please_ keep going, for the glass decider to push on that little bit further.

But when is Castiel ever one to get lucky? The bottle puffs against the carpet, pointing to Castiel. He stares down the bottle like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. His brother smiles at him.

“Put them in the closet!”

“What!” Castiel yells, but it happens so suddenly. The next thing he knows he’s stumbling across carpet and being shoved belligerently into a closet, Dean Winchester hot on his tail.

“No, no, no, no, no.” He mutters quickly, but it’s too late, they aren’t listening and the door is slammed shut in his face. He watches with dread as the mammoth space of the living room disappears, seemingly miles away now. In its place is a heavy door, strong and sturdy and infinite in its power.

The click of the door being locked is the final nail in his coffin.

He stands still for a moment, frozen in shock, before his survival instincts kick in.

Castiel throws his weight into the door and bangs on it aggressively, fist slamming over and over without any luck. “Let me OUT!” He yells. “GABRIEL, OPEN THIS DOOR!”

“Not until your seven minutes are up, bro.” He hears retreating footsteps, accompanied by the chuckles of his classmates.

He slams on the door once more, the wood blocking his cries and throwing them back in his face. “Oh, god, no. Please, no.” He gasps and inhales, each breath granting him less and less relief, until he takes a breath and feels nothing. No air, no relief, only fear. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.”

All he sees is four walls, so compact and they’re closing in. He knows, logically, that a house can’t alter its shape, the walls cannot move when they feel like it, a haunting dance to drive him to insanity. But logic is gone now, and he swears they will crush him. All he sees is blue.

It seems a cruel twist of fate that this house is so huge, and yet it has the smallest closet imaginable.  

“Hey man, calm down. If you don’t wanna do this we can just talk for seven minutes.” Dean Winchester. He remembers through his haze. That’s Dean Winchester, in the closet with him.

The space feels a thousand times smaller.

“No, its… uh.” He tries his best, but can’t breathe. “I…hate…small spaces.” He gets out between shallow wheezes.

 _Deep breaths,_ they say. He tries, but he feels like he’s drowning, like someone is sitting on his chest and laughing as he slowly suffocates.

“Cl–” He coughs. He tries again. “Claustro…phobic.” He stutters out.

He feels his vision blacken, dizziness consume him, his legs are weak. He falls to the floor in a heap, an uncontrolled tumble that sends him into the corner.

From down here, the ceilings look taller.

It helps slightly.

The floor beneath him begins to melt, a watery shore and he can feel it rising.

He feels a phantom wetness lick at his ankles, onerous spread of dew climbing up his body.

“Fuck. Hey! Guys open the door!” Dean yells. No one listens, they simply turn up the music louder, a clear sign. “Fucking assholes!”

Castiel sobs, tastes the bile rising in his throat. The loud music isn’t helping at all, just another thing smothering him. The noise is all around him, masking him. He’s sinking, sinking, until he’s at the bottom of the pool, cold and alone and stifling.

He’s freezing, and yet somehow it’s hot too, so impossibly hot in here, and he messily rubs at sweat as it drips from his pores, painting his forehead and stinging his eyes. Stinging his eyes, along with his tears.

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, a jackhammer pounding a million miles a minute.

“Tell me how to help.”

He tries to talk, but his mouth is dry, he’s hyperventilating and no matter how hard he tries there is no air, just a void. Each breath is a fight, one that’s getting harder and harder with each passing second.

“Listen to my voice, okay?”

At the depths of the pool, Castiel scrambles in the gritty tiles for purchase, something to hold on to. But they are slippery and sleek and he keeps falling. He grabs at Dean’s voice instead.

“You know Benny right?” Castiel conjures up an image of brooding shoulders, pale blue eyes, of the boy sitting mere metres away that helped lock him in here. He cries. Dean continues. “Well, once Benny asked me to meet him somewhere. Said he had something great planned. He wouldn’t give me any details, but it was his birthday, so I said okay and followed his directions.”

Dean sits down next to Cas, looping his arm over his shoulder. Next to him, Castiel closes his eyes and buries his face into his shoulder. Dean tightens his grip.

“It was a hell of a place to find, back ass nowhere. I think I got lost about five times, but I promised him, so I kept looking. Finally get to this place, it’s a frickin _butchers_. I was so confused.” Dean sighs deeply, breaths out slowly. Castiel tries to copy him. “I couldn’t find Benny, so I texted him. He told me he was running late, and asked if I could just pick up his order for him. So I did, asked for a guy named Fabio who could give me the good meat. Benny told me he’d know what I meant.”

Cas is swimming, higher and higher. He can see the light at the top, shining through the murkiness. He trembles still, but a little less violently.

“Anyway, the butcher points me to this door down the end of the shop. Fucking weird, but Benny said he was good people. He wouldn’t lie to me about that.” Dean sighs regretfully. “I should have known not to trust that Butcher, his name tag said Don.” Dean gently grabs Castiel’s neck, tilting his face so that he can look him in the eyes. “You listen to me, Cas, you _never_ trust anyone with the name Don.”  

He sounds so serious about it. It’s mildly endearing.

Deep in the shadow zone, life perishes, a crushing cimmerian barren. Up near the surface, the water carries more oxygen, less pressure. Castiel can feel it as he rises.

“So I go to the door, and walk into the back room. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Twelve Italian guys, covered in oil, in the middle of a giant orgy. ‘ _Fabio will give you the good meat.’”_ Dean says in a poor imitation of Benny’s southern drawl. “Fucking asshole.”

In between rapid breaths, Castiel lets out an amused breath, not enough to call a laugh, but a minute moment of relief.

“Did…did…” He gasps. He’s sinking again.

“ _Shh, shh_. They tried to get me to join in. Never ran out of a place faster. ‘Course, not before Benny got a picture of me there. He laughed so hard. You ever see those pictures around the school? Benny printed out a hundred copies and glued them to the lockers for weeks. Twelve dudes, buck ass naked, and I’m just standing there watching.”

Castiel thinks he may remember getting to school one morning, the image of nude men plastered onto his locker. He doesn’t remember Dean in the picture though, only one clothed figure whose face has been blacked out in sharpie. He figures that was Dean’s doing.

“Weirdest thing that has ever happened to me.” Dean finishes with a resigned sigh.

After hearing _that_ story, he’d be worried if it wasn’t.

He faintly realises the music has died down, the deafening silence filled only with his hopeless huffs.

“Seven minutes are up! Aww, look they’re cuddling.” Just beneath the surface, the muffled voice travels through water. It is a voice he recognises as Gabriel’s.  

He feels Dean next to him, both of his arms are now hugging Castiel tight, protecting him from the monsters in his mind.

He opens his eyes. The door is open, he can see the living room.

He breaches the surface, and inhales. He tastes sweet air on his tongue. He can breathe again.

He scrambles away from Dean, into the room. Blue fades into chocolate carpet, white ceiling, yellow lights, green pot plant in the corner.

_Out._

Confused faces look at him, at the boy gasping for breath on the floor. He feels like that four year old all over again. His chubby fingers clutch onto a bee that isn’t there.

No one moves, everything is silent, as if they’re afraid one sudden motion will frighten him.

Then Dean punches Gabriel in the face. “You ass! What kind of dick does that to his brother?!”

Castiel digs his fingers into the soft wool, muscle memory urging him to grab hold and don’t let go. Across from him is Gabriel, who’s laying on the floor, clutching his jaw and staring daggers at Dean.

“ _Dean_.” Castiel gulps, voice ragged, reluctantly trying to crawl its way out of his dry throat.

Dean turns worrisome eyes at him, and looks at Cas’ outstretched hand.

“Come here.” Dean says, as he heaves Castiel up and grabs his waist, steadying him. He feels that warm comfort flood back to him, ease like a blanket in winter. He droops his weight onto strong shoulders, doesn’t object when Dean heaves him into his arms and carries him like a damsel.

He’s just too damn tired. Too tired to walk, to care, to do anything but clutch onto Dean like a life jacket.

He squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to look around. If he can’t see anything, then he can pretend that nothing is there, and if nothing is there, then there is perpetual abyss, just motionless nightfall, lonely and homeless but not oppressive. The blackness is never-ending, and he can delude himself into believing it goes on forever. He doesn’t want to see four walls capped by a ceiling, an end, trapped like an animal in a cage.

Even this huge mansion feels small now.

He feels a chilled breeze hit his wet tears, opens his eyes to find them outside, Cas in Dean’s safe arms. He feels the water droplets fall from him, leaking off his clothes and staining a path behind him.  Slowly but surely, he is drying.

The fresh air is a relief to him, the outdoors, an eternal and open expanse. He looks up at the many stars twinkling in like sky like midnight goldstone, and he thinks of the limitless of it, he can’t even _begin_ to comprehend how long it goes for. Forever.

It’s infinite, boundless and big.

So much space and air.

He breathes.

He breathes easy.

Dean lowers his feet to solid ground, hard under his weight.

“Thank you.” Castiel says.  

“No problem, man. I’d say sorry for punching your brother, but I’m really not.” Castiel smiles shakily.

“Did that really happen to you? I saw the pictures, but the face was always coloured in.” He asks, and is delighted to hear Dean laugh at the question. Something akin to a flutter tickles his stomach, butterflies threatening to burst free. He tightens his gut and holds them in.

“Yeah. Benny was getting back at me for telling Jo he had a crush on her.” Dean chuckles. He looks up at the stars nostalgically, calling upon a memory. “One of the guys was wearing a blue thong.” Dean shakes his head in disgust. “Amateur. Pink satin panties are the best way to go.” And now it’s Castiel’s turn to laugh, chortles filling the empty air. He hears their echoes, calling out into both nothing and everything. The untold plains answers back.

“I didn’t pick you for a panties person.”

“Well I’m full of surprises, don’t write me off just yet.” Dean quips. “How are you feeling?”

He sighs, hot breath painting fog in the chilled air. He watches as it flies away effortlessly. “Like I can breathe.”

“Yeah, not usually how that goes. Robbed me of a good time, Cas.” He says it jokingly, but Castiel, still vulnerable, feels guilt for it anyway.

He frowns. He’s been so worried about himself he’d forgotten that he’s saddled Dean with this burden. “I’m sorry for ruining your night, you could probably go back in with more time. I’m sure Lisa or Bela would love to–” he’s cut off when Dean’s lips join with his, so sudden and unexpected that Castiel freezes. Dean pulls back, and smiles at him.

“Nah, I’d rather hang here with you.” Dean shrugs nonchalantly. “You really can’t take a hint can you? How many times do you think a guy can lose his pen, Cas?” And that’s all there is to be said.

Cas nods pathetically when Dean leans in again. This scene is more catering to him: outside under the stars. It’s disgustingly cheesy and cliché, but it’s nice, much nicer than between four cramped walls, against a vacuum and shelves. Dean tastes of apple and cinnamon, and when he licks the seam of Castiel’s lips, a request, Castiel opens up and chases the taste deeper.

A split second later Dean pulls away, his face cringed in repulse.

“Oh, gross!”

Castiel’s face falls. “I’ve never done this before. I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m doing.” He’d been told that when the time came, he’d know how to do it, that kissing came naturally. Apparently his idea of a good kiss and Dean’s differ greatly. He huddles in on himself, trying to make himself feel smaller. The smaller you are, the bigger a space feels. It’s something he is very used to doing.

“Shit! No, not like that.” Dean backtracks. “It’s just… what did you eat? Your mouth tastes like acid.”

Castiel thinks back. He didn’t drink when he arrived, and aside from a blueberry muffin he ate and downed with a glass of milk three hours ago, he’s had nothing. There should be no reason for–

“ _Oh god._ I think I may have thrown up a little when I had my panic attack. I’m so sorry, Dean.”

He really wishes lightning would randomly strike him down, or the Earth would swallow him whole, because Dean Winchester just tasted his bile, and out of all the ways he fantasised kissing Dean, this didn’t even enter the realm of possibilities. He never deluded himself into believing it would happen flawlessly, or at all, for that matter, because life never hands you those textbook perfect moments. But this? Well this was unpredictable, in the worst of ways.

“I’m so humiliated.” Castiel buries his face in his hands.

Dean laughs, of course he would. This night is going horrendously. “Thank god.” Castiel lifts his head from their makeshift mask. “I was seriously worried about what crap you were eating. Your mouth must taste like shit right now.”

He hadn’t paid much attention to it, but now that he swishes his tongue around his mouth, roaming the plains of his teeth and cheeks, he palates the acidic tang of his nerve. His face contorts into abhorrence. “That’s vile.”

Green eyes nod in agreeance. “You know what would help that? Pie.” Dean says. “What do you say we ditch this lame ass party and grab a bite?” Castiel beams. It sounds like a fantastic plan.

He vows to make it up to Dean after he brushes his teeth and has a good bath.

But for now, they sit in each other’s company on Castiel’s bed, takeout cherry pie washing clean the sour stain on his tongue, in its place a sweet promise.  

Somewhere across town, Gabriel has an ice pack to his jaw, Jo and Benny are in a closet, and Bela and Lisa fight for the affections of a man who would rather be no place else.

Castiel makes good on his promise.

Dean gets his seven minutes later that night.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone curious, it is possible to get claustrophobia from falling in a pool, especially if the pool is deep and a child cannot swim.
> 
> As always, have a great day guys


End file.
